HART-LEAP WELL

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.

 
  The Knight had ridden down from Wensley moor
  With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
  He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door,
  And, "Bring another Horse!" he cried aloud.
 
 
  "Another Horse!" – That shout the Vassal heard,
  And saddled his best steed, a comely Grey;
  Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
  Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
 
 
  Joy sparkeled in the prancing Courser's eyes;
  The horse and horsemen are a happy pair;
  But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
  There is a doleful silence in the air.
 
 
  A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
  That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar;
  But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all;
  Such race, I think, was never seen before.
 
 
  Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
  Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
  Brach, Swift and Music, noblest of their kind,
  Follow, and weary up the mountain strain.
 
 
  The Knight halloo'd, he chid and cheer'd them on
  With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
  But breath and eye-sight fail, and, one by one,
  The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern.
 
 
  Where is the throng, the tumult of the chace?
  The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
  – This race it looks not like an earthly race;
  Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
 
 
  The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
  I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
  Nor will I mention by what death he died;
  But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
 
 
  Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn;
  He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
  He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
  But gaz'd upon the spoil with silent joy.
 
 
  Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
  Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act;
  Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd,
  And foaming like a mountain cataract.
 
 
  Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd:
  His nose half-touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
  And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd
  The waters of the spring were trembling still.
 
 
  And now, too happy for repose or rest,
  Was never man in such a joyful case,
  Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south and west,
  And gaz'd, and gaz'd upon that darling place.
 
 
  And turning up the hill, it was at least
  Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found
  Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast
  Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.
 
 
  Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now
  Such sight was never seen by living eyes:
  Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
  Down to the very fountain where he lies."
 
 
  I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot,
  And a small Arbour, made for rural joy;
  Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
  A place of love for damsels that are coy.
 
 
  A cunning Artist will I have to frame
  A bason for that fountain in the dell;
  And they, who do make mention of the same,
  From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well.
 
 
  And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known,
  Another monument shall here be rais'd;
  Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,
  And planted where thy hoofs the turf have graz'd.
 
 
  And in the summer-time when days are long,
  I will come hither with my paramour,
  And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song,
  We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
 
 
  Till the foundations of the mountains fail
  My mansion with its arbour shall endure,
  – The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
  And them who dwell among the woods of Ure.
 
 
  Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
  With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.
  And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said,
  The fame whereof through many a land did ring.
 
 
  Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd,
  A cup of stone receiv'd the living well;
  Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd,
  And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
 
 
  And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
  With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd,
  Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
  A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
 
 
  And thither, when the summer days were long,
  Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour;
  And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
  Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
 
 
  The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
  And his bones lie in his paternal vale. —
  But there is matter for a second rhyme,
  And I to this would add another tale.
 

PART SECOND

 
  The moving accident is not my trade.
  To curl the blood I have no ready arts;
  'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
  To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts,
 
 
  As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
  It chanc'd that I saw standing in a dell
  Three aspins at three corners of a square,
  And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
 
 
  What this imported I could ill divine,
  And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
  I saw three pillars standing in a line,
  The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.
 
 
  The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
  Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green;
  So that you just might say, as then I said,
  "Here in old time the hand of man has been."
 
 
  I look'd upon the hills both far and near;
  More doleful place did never eye survey;
  It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here,
  And Nature here were willing to decay.
 
 
  I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
  When one who was in Shepherd's garb attir'd,
  Came up the hollow. Him did I accost,
  And what this place might be I then inquir'd.
 
 
  The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told
  Which in my former rhyme I have rehears'd.
  "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old,
  But something ails it now; the spot is curs'd."
 
 
  You see these lifeless stumps of aspin wood,
  Some say that they are beeches, others elms,
  These were the Bower; and here a Mansion stood,
  The finest palace of a hundred realms.
 
 
  The arbour does its own condition tell,
  You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream,
  But as to the great Lodge, you might as well
  Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
 
 
  There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
  Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
  And, oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
  This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
 
 
  Some say that here a murder has been done,
  And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
  I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun,
  That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
 
 
  What thoughts must through the creature's brain have pass'd!
  To this place from the stone upon the steep
  Are but three bounds, and look, Sir, at this last!
  O Master! it has been a cruel leap.
 
 
  For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
  And in my simple mind we cannot tell
  What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
  And come and make his death-bed near the well.
 
 
  Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
  Lull'd by this fountain in the summer-tide;
  This water was perhaps the first he drank
  When he had wander'd from his mother's side.
 
 
  In April here beneath the scented thorn
  He heard the birds their morning carols sing,
  And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
  Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
 
 
  But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade;
  The sun on drearier hollow never shone:
  So will it be, as I have often said,
  Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone.
 
 
  Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
  Small difference lies between thy creed and mine;
  This beast not unobserv'd by Nature fell,
  His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine.
 
 
  The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
  That is in the green leaves among the groves.
  Maintains a deep and reverential care
  For them the quiet creatures whom he loves.
 
 
  The Pleasure-house is dust: – behind, before,
  This, is no common waste, no common gloom;
  But Nature, in due course of time, once more
  Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
 
 
  She leaves these objects to a slow decay
  That what we are, and have been, may be known;
  But, at the coming of the milder day,
  These monuments shall all be overgrown.
 
 
  One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
  Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals,
  Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
  With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
 

There was a Boy, &c

 
There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs
  And Islands of Winander! many a time,
  At evening, when the stars had just begun
  To move along the edges of the hills,
  Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
  Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake,
  And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
  Press'd closely palm to palm and to his mouth
  Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
  Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
  That they might answer him. And they would shout
  Across the wat'ry vale and shout again
  Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
  And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
  Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene
 
 
  Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chanced
  That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,
  Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize
  Has carried far into his heart the voice
  Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene
  Would enter unawares into his mind
  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd
  Into the bosom of the steady lake.
 
 
  Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
  The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs
  Upon a slope above the village school,
  And there along that bank when I have pass'd
  At evening, I believe, that near his grave
  A full half-hour together I have stood,
  Mute – for he died when he was ten years old.
 

THE BROTHERS, A PASTORAL POEM

The BROTHERS.¹

 
  These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live
  A profitable life: some glance along
  Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air.
  And they were butterflies to wheel about
  Long as their summer lasted; some, as wise,
  Upon the forehead of a jutting crag
  Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee,
  And look and scribble, scribble on and look,
  Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
  Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
  But, for that moping son of Idleness
  Why can he tarry yonder? – In our church-yard
  Is neither epitaph nor monument,
  Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread.
  And a few natural graves. To Jane, his Wife,
  Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
  It was a July evening, and he sate
  Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves
  Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day,
  Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone
  His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
  While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire,
  He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
  Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air
  With back and forward steps. Towards the field
  In which the parish chapel stood alone,
  Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
  While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
  Many a long look of wonder, and at last,
  Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge
  Of carded wool – which the old Man had piled
  He laid his implements with gentle care,
  Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path
  Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,
  He took his way, impatient to accost
  The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
 
 
  'Twas one well known to him in former days,
  A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year
  Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners
  A fellow-mariner, and so had fared
  Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd
  Among the mountains, and he in his heart
  Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.
  Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
  The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
  Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind
  Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail
  And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
  Lengthening invisibly its weary line
  Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours
  Of tiresome indolence would often hang
  Over the vessel's aide, and gaze and gaze,
  And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam
  Flash'd round him images and hues, that wrought
  In union with the employment of his heart,
  He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
  Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
  Below him, in the bosom of the deep
  Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that graz'd
  On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,
  And Shepherds clad in the same country grey
  Which he himself had worn.²
 
 
                            And now at length,
  From perils manifold, with some small wealth
  Acquir'd by traffic in the Indian Isles,
  To his paternal home he is return'd,
  With a determin'd purpose to resume
  The life which he liv'd there, both for the sake
  Of many darling pleasures, and the love
  Which to an only brother he has borne
  In all his hardships, since that happy time
  When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
  Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.
  – They were the last of all their race; and now,
  When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart
  Fail'd in him, and, not venturing to inquire
  Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov'd,
  Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside,
  That, as he knew in what particular spot
  His family were laid, he thence might learn
  If still his Brother liv'd, or to the file
  Another grave was added. – He had found
  Another grave, near which a full half hour
  He had remain'd, but, as he gaz'd, there grew
  Such a confusion in his memory,
  That he began to doubt, and he had hopes
  That he had seen this heap of turf before,
  That it was not another grave, but one,
  He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
  As up the vale he came that afternoon,
  Through fields which once had been well known to him.
  And Oh! what joy the recollection now
  Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
  And looking round he thought that he perceiv'd
  Strange alteration wrought on every side
  Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
  And the eternal hills, themselves were chang'd.
 
 
  By this the Priest who down the field had come
  Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate
  Stopp'd short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
  He scann'd him with a gay complacency.
  Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself;
  'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
  Of the world's business, to go wild alone:
  His arms have a perpetual holiday,
  The happy man will creep about the fields
  Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
  Tears down his check, or solitary smiles
  Into his face, until the setting sun
  Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
  Beneath a shed that overarch'd the gate
  Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd
  The good man might have commun'd with himself
  But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
  Approach'd; he recogniz'd the Priest at once,
  And after greetings interchang'd, and given
  By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
  Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
 

LEONARD

 
  You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
  Your years make up one peaceful family;
  And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
  And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
  They cannot be remember'd. Scarce a funeral
  Comes to this church-yard once, in eighteen months;
  And yet, some changes must take place among you.
  And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks
  Can trace the finger of mortality,
  And see, that with our threescore years and ten
  We are not all that perish. – I remember,
  For many years ago I pass'd this road,
  There was a foot-way all along the fields
  By the brook-side – 'tis gone – and that dark cleft!
  To me it does not seem to wear the face
  Which then it had.
 

PRIEST

 
                    Why, Sir, for aught I know,